Purpose
by PotterDemiWhoHunterBute
Summary: Castiel is human. He feels everything now- pain, hatred, and love. Pain, when he falls over and cuts his hands. Hatred, when someone mentions the Scribe of God. And love... whenever thoughts of a certain demon come to mind. Summary sucks but y'know, give it a shot. Megstiel, *in progress*


A/N: Hey, so this is my first Supernatural fan-fiction, so be nice!

This takes place after Metatron takes Castiel's Essence.

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_His head was held back by the Scribe's hand, which seemed as though had a larger amount of strength in them than before. The angel blade, held in the other glinted in the white light of the room as it neared him. The Angel of Thursday drew quick, sharp breaths, and his eyes widened as the realisation hit him. Again. And again. He was a fool. He thought, _hoped, _that he was doing the right thing. But he was stupid. Stupid._

_The cold metal touched his vessel's neck, and he yelled in agony, but he couldn't hear anything other than the sharp ringing of an angel's grace. The slit in his neck pained him beyond belief. Metatron, the Scribe whom Castiel trusted just because God had once, and the Scribe who had caused much trouble with the tablets he wrote on, yet also given him information which was priceless to Hunters and Angels alike was extracting Castiel's essence. Slowly. Painfully. The angel wriggled, trying to escape, but his efforts were foolish._

"_These were never trials, Castiel," he wriggled still, anger building up when his own name was spoken, he didn't deserve a name anymore, he was nothing. His identity was being ripped from him because of his foolish trust in God._

"_This is a spell." In that moment, the Angel was slowly becoming a human. He felt something escaping from his chest, yet at the same time, something was growing inside him; a soul._

"_And what I am taking from you now, your essence, your grace, is the last piece." _

_The slit now bled, and Castiel could not heal it. He was human._

_Metatron held the small glass vial, which contained the essence, and Castiel's eyes never left the miniscule bottle which held him. The writers hand touched his neck heavy handedly and the pain, was gone. He was no longer dying, but he might as well be dead._

"_And now, something wonderful is going to happen, for me, and for you." Metatron spoke softly, just the way he did when he first deceived the angel to go about these tasks for him, "I want you to live this new life to the fullest. Find a wife. Make babies. And when you die, and your soul comes to heaven, find me- tell me your story."_

_Metatron's hand rested on Castiel's head and he felt himself being removed from Heaven, his home, his sanctuary._

"_Now go." The room lit up with a blinding bright white light and he was sent away._

* * *

Castiel lay on the ground, and gripped the leaves that were by his hands tightly, but not as tightly as he would when he was an angel. Feelings overwhelmed him, and he was in shock as to how humans coped with so many negative, upsetting feelings at once. He wanted to do the thing humans did when they were sad, disappointed, angry... Cry. But he couldn't, he didn't know how. He felt useless. Pathetic.

When he was an angel, he had a purpose; keeping Sam and Dean safe. Now- he had nothing. He could stay where he was, waste away, die. At least then he'd be back in Heaven. Maybe overthrow Metatron as a human soul if he could. Maybe not. Maybe he could just be a regular soul, explore the happiest memories of his life- there had been many, after all. The happiest of all, however, had been since he'd plucked Dean Winchester from hell. _That _was the start of his life.

It wasn't when he was born an angel, not when the earth and the humans were first created, not even when Lucifer was finally cast into Hell after all the strife he caused. Dean and Sam were his priorities, his purpose, his family.

He closed his eyes, determined to die, yet when he did, he saw a face he'd almost, shamefully, forgotten about. A face that had come to mean happiness to Castiel, yet a face that hid so much negativity beneath. He could see how damaged she was, how the murders she'd committed had torn her soul to shreds. He was meant to kill her, but nothing anyone would say would make him do so. The feelings he felt, even when he was an angel, were strong enough to be felt, yet weak enough to stay unidentified.

It was her that Castiel first thought about his purpose on this world. He recalled what she'd said to Dean, Sam and Castiel one time:

"_I figured one thing out about this world. Just one, pretty much. You find a cause and you serve it. Give yourself over and it orders your life. Lucifer and Yellow-Eyes, their mission was it for me."_

_Dean retorted with a response which although she was used to, slightly angered her more than usual._

"_I'm talking cause, douche bag, as in reason to get up in the morning." _

Castiel remembers just looking at her, admiring her words, admiring her. He wondered how somebody with such a shattered soul could have such good words which meant so much.

The memories of _her_ seemed to pry open his eyes, to face what he'd done. He looked around at his surroundings. He didn't know where he was, but he stood up anyway and started walking. Walking was so _slow, _and he longed for his powers back so he could get back to his family. He didn't even know whether Sam was okay- Dean had gone to save him after all, but whether he'd got there in time was another matter. He could be dead. Dean could be praying to him right now, and he didn't know that Castiel couldn't hear.

He was in the middle of a forest which painfully reminded him of Purgatory and he inwardly screamed in fear. He _knew _he wasn't back there, but the memories were so real, so _alive _that they overwhelmed him, made him cower in a corner, clamping his eyes shut until they were over.

Before long, Castiel came across a clearing, which offered a perfect view of the sky, which was now lit up with angels falling. It was strangely beautiful –he'd never seen angels falling before– and for a moment or two, he didn't even think of this as _his fault. _But his knees almost buckled as he could see an angel's wings burning off, so bright he couldn't see the falling angel's face. He presumed it was just as well- it would probably be an old friend, Balthazar maybe. In the last hour alone, he'd disappointed so many friends. His hands reached up to his face angrily, wanting to rip himself apart, and felt droplets of liquid escaping from his eyes... Tears.

How many souls had he disappointed now? He tried to name them- Dean, Sam, the angels, God.

The angels, his _friends_ were plunging head first onto earth in a display of fire and light because of _him. _Why couldn't he just be a normal angel; like Hester or Inias. They never did anything to let anyone down, they were simply angels- killed when told to kill, healed when told to heal.

But Castiel was different- he was reckless, he was foolish, he was human.


End file.
